Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

you blackmailing me, Madame René?”

“You are still a virgin, mademoiselle,” the modiste pronounced.

The muscles inside Victoria’s vagina clenched.

“You are mistaken, madame.”

“Mademoiselle, had Monsieur Gabriel taken you, your eyes would shine with satisfaction and your mouth

and your breasts and your sex lips would be swollen. I assure you, he has not touched you.”

Sex lips reverberated inside Victoria’s ears. She felt the peal of swollen all the way between her thighs.

Victoria instinctively squeezed her legs together; her arms compressed her ribs.

“And you will, of course, report these observations,” she said cuttingly.

“He was un prostituee, mademoiselle.” For men rather than women, she did not need to add. “I am aware

of what Monsieur Gabriel was,” Victoria icily retorted. “But are you aware of what he is now?” the

modiste inquired. How much longer must she stand before this woman with her every flaw visible

underneath the harsh electric light?

“He is the proprietor of this house,” she said stiffly.

“He is the untouchable angel, mademoiselle,” Madame René corrected her. “And he employs our kind.

Not all of us are successful.”

Our k ind.

Victoria instinctively glanced at the pearl collar that concealed the modiste’s throat.

“But you were successful,” she said impetuously.

“Oui, I was très successful. Most prostitutes, mademoiselle, die from disease or poverty. You have

seen poverty; it is in your eyes. Very few men— or women—pay the amount of money that you were paid

last night.”

But Gabriel had not bid two thousand pounds so that he might engage in sexual congress with her.

The coldness that suddenly permeated Victoria had nothing to do with the lack of fire in the satinwood

fireplace or the wet hair that plastered her back.

Had the man who bid one hundred and five pounds and then one thousand pounds wanted her virginity

... or had he wanted her life?

“Did women also purchase Monsieur Gabriel’s . . . services?” Victoria asked compulsively.

The question came unbidden.

“Oui.” Memory glowed inside Madame René’s eyes. “He and Monsieur Michel were the toast of

London. Les deux anges.”

The two angels.

Michel in English was Michael.

Gabriel was God’s messenger, Victoria had said.

Michael was his chosen, Gabriel had countered.

Was he the man who had hurt Gabriel?

Had Michael been the man who had bid one hundred and five pounds and then one thousand pounds?. . .

“This Monsieur Michel. . . were he and Gabriel.. . rivals?”

“They were friends.”

“And now?”

“There are bonds, mademoiselle,” the modiste said cryptically, “that nothing can sever.”

Except death.

Victoria recoiled.

“You have seen me, madame.” Sharp irony laced Victoria’s voice. “You may now leave.”

Else she would expire from the cold and the strain of holding her arms at her sides instead of hiding

behind them as she had hidden behind wool dresses and other women’s children.

Madame René did not leave.

“You disappoint me, mademoiselle.”

Her chest ached—from the pressure of her arms. There was no reason why Victoria should care one

way or another about what the couturiere felt.

“I beg your pardon,” she said rigidly.

“I thought you were a brave woman.”

“History has often mistaken desperation for heroism.”

“It would take a brave woman to love a man such as Gabriel.”

What if I wanted more than your virginity?

Victoria didn’t have anything else to offer a man.

“Then it is as well that Monsieur Gabriel did not purchase me to love him,” she rejoined.

Madame René’s eyes narrowed. The diamond on her forefinger flashed disapproval.

“Monsieur Michel is named because of his ability to pleasure women.”

Victoria’s heart skipped a beat.

“How can a man be named because of his ability to pleasure women?” she countered politely.

“He is known as Michel des Anges.”

Michael of the angels.

“Angels do not engage in sexual congress, madame.”

Madame René was not deterred by Victoria’s cynicism.

“We French refer to an orgasm as voir les anges, to see angels.”

Gabriel had referred to an orgasm as la petite mort, the little death.

The eye of the peacock feather and the modiste’s stare were equally unblinking. Both searching for...

what?

“Some women, mademoiselle,” the modiste said deliberately, “claim that Monsieur Gabriel’s expertise is

superior to that of his friend.”

The cold enveloping Victoria was chased away by blazing heat.

“Madame, you will forgive me, but I am not in the way of holding a conversation without clothing.”

Madame René shrugged. “We are women, mademoiselle. And Monsieur Gabriel is not offended by a

woman’s body.”

“Monsieur Gabriel has not been with a woman in some time.”

Now why had Victoria said that?

“Out.”

“I do not know how to seduce a man.”

I do not k now how to seduce a man reverberated inside the chill bedchamber.

Satisfaction shone in Madame René’s tawny eyes.

“Tournez autour, mademoiselle, et je vous montrerai comment seduire un home”

Victoria automatically translated the older woman’s French: Turn around .. . and I will show you how to

seduce a man.

Apprehension danced inside her stomach.

The older woman’s gaze silently dared Victoria to be a woman.

To love a man who spurned love.

Victoria turned around and gazed in the cheval mirror.

Silver eyes stared back at her.

Chapter

9

Victoria had not heard Gabriel come into his bedchamber. But there he stood.

She had not felt Gabriel’s presence. Now she felt it in every part of her body: her breasts that were

passable, her hips and derriere that were not. . .

Three people watched Victoria: Madame René, cobalt blue dress and flaming red hair topped by a hat

with a bobbing peacock feather; Victoria, water-blackened hair glued to her naked body, and